


(Nice Dream)

by oldmaker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Author has not watched season fifteen yet, Bisexual Dean Winchester, COVID-19, Closeted Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Coronavirus, M/M, Nightmares, Slow Burn, Takes place in ambiguous time period of present day ish, The alternate universe tags are not there for the reason you think they are, a little political but i have no agenda, author is barely surviving self isolation, author is projecting, bloody bloody andrew jackson - Freeform, listen to it it's a very good musical, thats a lie theres always an agenda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmaker/pseuds/oldmaker
Summary: Dean Winchester spent forty years in Hell, but they pale in comparison to the thousands of lifetimes he’s lived during their month of COVID-19 social distancing. Maybe it won’t be so bad once Sam develops a routine and settles back into his usual personality. Maybe it won’t be so bad once Cas finds something better to do than make arts and crafts all day. And maybe it won’t be so bad once Dean stops having those weird dreams about being in high school.There is nothing supernatural about a virus. It is not their kind of weird. But that doesn’t mean their kind of weird won’t follow them into quarantine.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester, Lisa Braeden & Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	(Nice Dream)

**Author's Note:**

> My first Supernatural fic. Here's a funny story to explain that.
> 
> I was scared of this fandom for my entire life and refused to touch the series with a ten-foot-pole. In September, my best friend (@smellslikecitrus) finally agreed to let me show her Star Trek IF I let her show me Supernatural. I still thought the show was stupid - it didn't help the first episode she showed me was the one with the nipple fairies - but after several torturous sessions, I decided I didn't hate the show, and I'd give it a chance. I made a goal for myself: I was going to watch all fourteen seasons of Supernatural in time to catch up to Season 15 and finish the series with the rest of the fandom. It was my only goal for all of senior year.
> 
> Well, things have changed. I'm on 14.18 as of today, which means I averaged about .777 (repeating) seasons a week, or about 18 episodes a week, which is about two and a half episodes a day. Throughout senior year, college applications, and five theatrical productions, Supernatural is pretty much all that has kept me ticking.
> 
> Welp. Now there is a virus over the entire face of the planet, and there is no school for four weeks, and SPN filming is postponed, and the delicate threads holding reality together are rapidly fraying. I went through the show too fast and now don't have enough episodes left to last through our period of quarantine. I have nothing to do, nothing at all... except write fanfiction.
> 
> Here we go!
> 
> OH and two notes about music references: The title is taken from Radiohead's song of the same title. Chapter titles are lyrics from the musical Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, which is kind of part of the plot, but not in a way that you need to know it. The music and themes are very on-brand for Supernatural so if you're a fan of musical theatre or historical satire, check it out!
> 
> And don't forget to read the tags! :)

Baby always smelled the same. It didn’t matter if she was in the garage, on the highway, or (God forbid) in a ditch, but she always smelled the same. Leather. Oil. Gasoline. Aftershave. Gunpowder. Beer. A whiff of monster guts. Cheeseburgers from lunches on the road. That weird woodsy smell that follows Castiel everywhere. Sam’s shampoo. _Home_.

He probably looked like a total moron, pressing his face up against Baby’s steering wheel like this, but Dean didn’t really care. The metal was forming painful welts across his forehead and nose but in a sick sort of way it felt like a gentle hug. He’d slammed his face against this steering wheel too many times before (hitting the brakes too hard when he was sixteen, dancing to the radio too hard just last week), so it was some form of a routine to remind himself of that familiar feeling.

 _Routine_.

Apparently, Dean was singing in his sleep again. Nonsense words and profanities, mostly — something about painting on dead bodies, a ditty about Susan Sontag, and the inclusion of the disturbingly obscure phrase “popula- _jizz_ m” — but still. Singing. In his sleep. Like being locked inside for a month with only his brother and best friend wasn’t going to be filled with enough humiliating moments as it was.

Sam had started documenting Dean’s dream quotes years ago, when things were more normal, and Dean’s sleep outbursts were limited to random laughter and perplexingly sophisticated exclamations. Once the hunters had taken a single room at a motel that was otherwise completely booked, and Dean had been fitfully sleeping on the couch. Around one in the morning, as Sam and Castiel were studying the origins of sirens, Dean called out angrily into the night:

“Little flippers flew through that shit and I can’t pick it up.”

“Can’t pick what up?” Sam asked.

“Fuck yeah,” Dean muttered, then went back to sleep.

Castiel hadn’t taken the event lightly. He’d spent the next week sifting Dean for clues as to what he meant until he’d annoyed him enough to receive the silent treatment. He stockpiled lore on creatures with flippers and made himself a chart with events in their recent history that may have emotionally scarred Dean deep enough to make him dream about not being able to pick something up. Sam, meanwhile, had precisely documented the moment in his journal, giving it a special bookmark to not only commemorate its originality, but Castiel’s overprotective reaction. He quoted the flipper night frequently, to Castiel’s distress and Dean’s embarrassment, until it wasn’t funny anymore. It took years.

And now Dean was not only speaking but _singing_ in his sleep. It had been on and off for the past couple of days. Castiel diagnosed it as an anxious byproduct of cabin fever or some kind of manifestation of his subconscious desires, and when Dean realized Castiel had been watching over him as he slept again, he’d started locking his door at night.

But it’s not like Castiel had anything better to do, having read every book in the bunker. He had not yet heard all the songs that were being cooked up in Dean’s REM brain.

Sam, however, did not seem very interested in the fact that Dean was singing while he was asleep. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t touched the dream journal in months. For Sam, quarantine was being spent mostly in his own room, doing crossword puzzles and meditative coloring books, watching true crime documentaries on Netflix, and trimming his hair with safety scissors. Dean hardly saw him outside of meals, which mostly consisted of cereal and beef jerky at this point. He knew he should be more concerned about Sam, but he wasn’t keeping record of his embarrassing sleep outbursts anymore, so Dean didn’t feel like ruining a good thing.

Because there were very few good things left in the hunters’ lives at the moment. And for three guys who consistently were dealt the short end of the stick, that was saying something.

Baby was a good thing. That smell — Dean took a good sniff just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating — was a good thing. Sitting in his Baby, alone, just him and the car and the garage surrounding them, was a good thing. Dean grew up in this car, lived in this car. When he had nightmares, he slept in Baby’s backseat instead of his own bedroom. The virus could take the road from him, take hunting from him, take his life from him, but it couldn’t take his car. Baby was his routine.

“Dean, your rice krispies are getting soggy.”

Baby could wait. His new routine did have some perks — like Cas making breakfast.

“Where’s the trench coat?” Dean asked as he got out of the car, awkwardly pretending to rub his eyebrow to hide the red dents on his face. Castiel was planted in the doorway of the garage, arms frozen at his sides, expression completely unreadable — a normal occurrence in every way, besides the fact that he was wearing fuzzy pajamas. “What’s with the ‘fit?”

“Sam suggested I adapt to social distancing in a more human manner,” Castiel said. “He says I might enjoy myself if I loosen up a little. He lent me your old pajamas.”

“He lent you my-” Dean frowned, then stopped. “That’s a weird thing for Sam to suggest. Usually he’s the mindfulness guru gung-ho about wellness.”

“Well, I think it is an effective wellness strategy,” Castiel said. “Your pajamas are admittedly quite comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Dean said automatically, even though he knew it was weird. When Castiel didn’t break eye contact for a few moments, Dean rolled his eyes and pushed past him to go inside. “C’mon. My rice krispies aren’t going to snap, crackle, and pop themselves.”

Castiel followed. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”

The rice krispies were, indeed, soggy when Dean finally reached them, but he didn’t really mind. Rice krispies were always delicious, regardless of their consistency. He did regret he didn’t make it in time for that sweet spot (just the right amount of cool crunch followed by a moist milky squish), but even if it was just mush, the ricey flavor never let him down. It was like a cold oatmeal. A grainy gazpacho. A sophisticated porridge. Quarantine may not have improved Dean’s palate, but it at least improved his attitude about it.

Sam was eating them dry. Plain crispy rice pieces straight from the bowl. He was on his phone, brow furrowed intently as it only could be when reading something concerning.

“Your hair looks nice,” Dean said through a mouthful of milk mush.

“I told him the same thing,” Castiel said. “He still thinks the sides are choppy.”

“Not more so than usual,” Dean shrugged. “No, Sammy, looks pretty good. I like that it’s feathered at the eyebrows. I can finally see your face again.”

Sam glanced up with a petulant expression, then cocked his head. “Speaking of faces, what’d you do to yours? Get in a car accident?”

“No, that’s how his face always looks,” Castiel said. Dean shot him a glare, but Castiel’s mouth was flat and his eyes calm. Either he was getting better at sarcasm or the hyperbole had gone completely over his head.

“No, Sam, I did not get in a car accident,” Dean said, subconsciously rubbing a finger over the slowly-receding dent on his forehead. “Just slept funny.”

“You were sniffing Baby again,” Sam smiled.

“I was- Yes. I was sniffing Baby again. It’s therapeutic!”

“Whatever,” Sam said, punctuated with a sharp crunch of his dry cereal, and went back to looking at his phone.

“You know what else is therapeutic?” Dean continued. “Eating cereal with _milk_.”

“Lactose,” Sam reminded him. “Hey. Have you read the news lately?”

“No,” Dean said. He looked down at his bowl and stirred his cereal around, trying to get the kernels to disintegrate in the milk.

“Seven thousand confirmed cases in the states,” Sam said, “and 141 deaths. Over 214,000 cases globally. Jesus, 475 people died in Italy in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Okay, I get it,” Dean said. Leave it to Sam to prove that no matter how sad Dean was, he could always get sadder.

“Oh, God. You won’t believe the stocks right now.”

“It’s a good time to invest, then, correct?” Castiel offered. “You taught me that, Dean.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I wasn’t really referring to situations involving a worldwide pandemic, though.”

“Get this,” Sam laughed. “Trump actually okayed a relief package: ‘free testing, expanded funding for food security programs, and paid sick, family, and medical leave for workers at companies with 500 employees or fewer.’ And they’re looking into providing direct payment to taxpayers.”

“About damn time,” Castiel said. “Although I still prefer Bernie’s relief plans.”

Dean shook his head. After the Iowa caucuses, Castiel had become incredibly interested in politics, and although it was at times entertaining, it was also exhausting. “I think Bernie’s a cool guy too, Cas, but when have politicians ever solved anything? We’re the only ones whose relief plans ever actually fix shit.”

“There’s nothing supernatural about this virus, Dean,” Castiel observed.

“I don’t know.” Dean looked away. Cas was making that face again. The sad one. He didn’t like looking at it. “There’s gotta be something we can do.”

Sam put his spoon down and dumped the rest of his rice krispies into his mouth. “We’re doing it,” He said through the mouthful, standing and bringing his dishes to the sink. He brushed past Dean and Castiel and rapped on the table with his knuckles as he passed. “If you guys need me, I’ll be evening out the layers above my ears.”

“Cut conservatively,” Dean called as his brother disappeared. He glanced at Castiel knowingly. “Pretty soon Sam’s not gonna have any hair left at all. Then we’ll know it’s the Apocalypse.”

The hunter and the angel sat in silence for a few moments. The air was thick, but not any thicker than it had been for the past week of quarantine. It was quickly starting to feel like they were buried alive, like they were running out of air.

“Are you enjoying your soggy rice krispies?” Castiel asked.

“Yes. Don’t you have something better to do than watch me eat?” Dean retorted. Castiel cocked his head and Dean sighed. “Don’t answer that.”

“I found a fascinating tutorial on how to make dream catchers this morning,” Castiel said instead, changing the subject.

“That’s cool, Cas. Why dream catchers? You trying to figure out what’s making me sing in my sleep?”

“I had a feeling you would accuse me of that, but no. Not everything I do is about you, Dean,” Castiel smiled a little. “I just wanted something new to pass the time. I was starting to deduce that you and Sam were getting sick of the paper snowflakes.”

Dean glanced around the walls at the hundreds of multi-colored paper snowflakes that were taped, strung, and hung about the bunker’s walls and sucked his teeth. “Not _sick_ , per se, but certainly concerned that we wouldn’t need any more soon.” He stood up with his bowl, and Castiel mirrored his motions, following him to the sink even though he had no dishes to put there. Dean paused as he set the bowl down and bit his lip. “But do you think they could? Explain the singing, I mean.”

“That is not what dream catchers are supposed to do,” Castiel said. “When hung above a person’s bed, they catch the bad dreams but let the good dreams through. When the sun hits the dream catcher in the morning, the bad dreams evaporate. According to legend.”

“Not like there’s any sunlight streaming into the bunker to evaporate my bad dreams in the first place,” Dean remarked. “I haven’t been having nightmares lately, anyway, but if you’re gonna make some dream catchers, I’m not gonna stop you, Cas.”

“Will you tell me what you’ve been dreaming about?” Castiel prodded, a somewhat mischievous grin crossing his face. “You rarely sing when you’re awake. Forgive me for being immensely curious.”

Dean opened the fridge and pulled out a beer, assuming Castiel would refuse one if he offered. To his surprise, Castiel took the bottle from him. Dean blinked and reached into the fridge for a beer of his own.

“Little early for _you_ to be drinking,” Dean said.

“My perception of the fabric of time is rapidly disintegrating,” Castiel said.

“Okay, fair enough,” Dean shrugged, taking a swig, and studied the calm expression on Castiel’s face. He turned away to head to his room, knowing the angel would still be trailing him. “I’ve been dreaming about being in high school again.”

“High school?” Castiel laughed a little, as if he weren’t expecting that answer. “Such dreams are generally associated with high levels of stress and a feeling of powerlessness. It means you are seeking validation or reassurance for an aspect of your life that is changing.” At Dean’s incredulous stare, Castiel swallowed. “A little on the nose?”

“A little,” Dean said. “But it’s not like regular high school dreams, where I’ve failed a test, or I realize I showed up naked, or I’m abandoned by a girl at the school dance. These are weirdly vivid, and nothing really happens.”

“And you sing in them?”

“Well, I’m a _theatre kid_ in my dreams,” Dean scoffed. “God knows why. And everyone I know is there too, and they’re all teenagers, and they all have different jobs. Rowena is a costume designer. Sammy’s in the ensemble. Eileen is on light crew, I think, or just doing something up in the catwalks. You and Kevin and Donna make appearances. I’m the leading man.”

“That is a little strange,” Castiel agreed, “albeit somewhat endearing. You singing in your sleep must be a projection of your rehearsals.”

“And get this. The musical is about Andrew freaking Jackson, of all things. A musical about Andrew Jackson? I don’t even know who Andrew Jackson was.”

“He was the seventh president of the United States. He was also a popular demon vessel during the early nineteenth century.”

“Great. Well, I’m playing some rock star version of him in my dreams.”

“So it is a recurring dream?”

“More of a recurring _situation_ than a recurring dream,” Dean said, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember more specifics. “Something different happens every time. Like, last night we were rehearsing a romantic scene, but there was this, like, fake blood everywhere. It was macabre but also kind of awesome.”

“ _W_ _e_ were rehearsing this scene?” Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“Not _us_ , ding dong. Me and, um," Dean winced, "Lisa. Lisa Braeden. She’s there, too.”

The two men stopped outside Dean’s bedroom door, the hunter’s hand resting on the knob and the angel standing with an absent-minded expression as he gazed at Dean. They shared a sigh. Neither of them had anywhere to go, so why did it feel like they were wasting time?

“I want my dream catcher to have red strings,” Dean announced. “And if we have any beads I want the ones with three knobs. You know, the ones that look like little fidget spinners.”

“I always thought they looked like puppies,” Castiel said.

“I have no idea how you think they look like puppies,” Dean muttered, opening his door to go inside. “Text me if you need help finding something.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean felt a hand on his shoulder. “We’re isolating ourselves from society, but you and your brother are acting like we’re isolating ourselves from each other. Even I know that’s not the right kind of social distancing for this situation.”

Dean held back a whiny groan. “Cas, we’re gonna spend how many weeks together in this bunker? Sam likes his alone time every once in a while. He’s got a point. We’ll get sick of each other fast if we don’t hang out in moderation.” Castiel was still staring at him with The Face and Dean softened his shoulders. “I’ll play a board game with you later. But first I need to drink my beer and ruminate on everything I hate about the world in private.”

“I will make your dream catcher with red strings,” Castiel smiled.

“Fidget spinner beads,” Dean reminded him, and closed his door, officially quarantined.

* * *

_“Just because you can hit that high note doesn’t mean you should.”_

_Kevin wields his clipboard over his chest like a shield when he says that, as if he is aware of the consequences his snark will bring, but the impish expression on his face does nothing to betray any shred of shame. Dean refuses to break eye contact, eyebrows drawn firmly downward, and the young ASM giggles sheepishly._

_“Well, I’m thinking, maybe you shouldn’t blow your voice out, this close to tech week and all.”_

_“If Mr. Shurley didn’t think I could sing it, he wouldn’t have cast me,” Dean retorts, but then returns to his business sorting wood planks into their appropriate bins. Avoiding splinters is more deserving of his focus than a snarky runt who thinks he’s special just because he scored the assistant stage manager position as a freshman._

_“Kevin has a point, Dean,” Sam says, popping back out of the supply closet holding a bucket of nails and an electric drill. “We hear you singing enough during rehearsal. Give it a rest on construction day, will you?”_

_“Dude, back me up here.” Dean says. He tosses a two-by-four into a bin and is met with a cloud of sickly sweet sawdust billowing into his face. “Least you can do is stick up for your kin.”_

_“Not when I’ve heard your falsetto twenty times a day. Rest your voice,_ Andrew _.”_

 _“I happen to enjoy Dean’s singing,” a gravelly voice announces, and a body ambles into the scene shop holding a basket of costumes so full it obscures their face. The basket is set on the floor and Castiel rises to his full height, hands on his hips. Dean makes eye contact with the stage manager and they share a grin. Castiel, tone deaf as he is, breaks into song._ "I wish that you were dead so that I could paint your face a different color _...” Dean joins in, sticking his tongue out at Sam and Kevin, grabbing a wooden plank to use as a prop microphone. “_ Who was it that ever said that my life really couldn’t get any duller? My family’s dead and I can’t see a way to carry on… I’m not THAT GUY!”

_Dean stops singing to let Castiel take the chorus and laughs when his voice cracks on the high note. Castiel freezes and glances at the three boys staring at him with wincing smiles on their faces._

_“I’m stage manager, and not a performer, for a reason,” Castiel explains bluntly, then looks back down at his basket of laundry. “Rowena asked that I bring you guys your costumes to try on. She thinks if you wear them while building the set it’ll help you get into character.”_

_Sam sets down his drill and starts rooting through the basket, looking for the antique vest he called dibs on earlier. “Why do we need to get into character? Isn’t it kind of a risk we’ll ruin the costumes?”_

_“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean mutters, glancing at Castiel and making a shushing motion while subtly retrieving Sam’s drill for himself. “Not like I need to get any more in touch with my ‘incorrigible white boy with anger issues’ side than I already am. I’m a method actor!”_

_Castiel rolls his eyes. “I think Rowena is concerned that your physicality as Andrew Jackson is still too similar to your regular physicality, regardless of the creative interpretations and modernization this show requires.”_

_“Well, Rowena’s not the director,” Sam remarks, pulling his vest out of the basket. “Although it’s not like Chuck has shown up for a rehearsal lately. Where’s my drill?”_

_“His name is not Chuck. It’s Mr. Shurley,” Kevin corrects. “And Dean took it.”_

_Pulling his arms through the vest holes, Sam turns and glares at Dean, who has stealthily crept off to a corner to drill screws into random background panels. “What?” Dean cocks his head innocently. Sam marches across the room and snatches the drill back. Dean picks up a hammer and instead begins hammering nails into the walls instead of drilling them._

_“Leave that scenery alone, we need that brick wall for A Christmas Carol in the fall,” Castiel sighs. “Come try on your pantaloons.”_

_“Don’t call them that,” Dean groans._

_“Did somebody say pantaloons?” Charlie cheers, skipping into the scene shop and tossing her paintbrush into the sink with a huge clang as she does so before diving into Castiel’s basket head-first. “I love pantaloons! I love pantaloons. Please tell me I’m wearing pantaloons!”_

_“I regret to inform you that Female Soloist wears a dress,” Castiel says. “I can at least assure you that it is a very, as you say, ‘nifty’ dress.” Castiel pries Charlie out of the basket and flings a few articles of clothing to the ground in the process. He groans and bends over to clean them up. “I hope you guys like your shirts with a side of sawdust.”_

_“I’m telling you, costumes don’t belong in the scene shop,” Sam says._

_"Rowena just wants to see Dean wearing his hot pants as long as possible," Kevin remarks knowingly._

_“All pants I wear are hot pants,” Dean grins._

_“Ew,” Sam wrinkles his nose. “Charlie, you wanna help me build the concert platform? The legs are uneven because apparently I have no depth perception.”_

_“I am honored that you would have faith in my depth perception,” Charlie smiles, brushing dust off her knees and walking over to Sam. She stops in her tracks and raises an eyebrow. “And, uh… my depth perception is telling me that your vest does not fit you.”_

_“What?” Sam exclaims, looking down at himself._

_“Yeah,” Charlie says, “it’s kinda bunched and flipping upwards in the back, and the arm holes are, like, not sitting too happily.”_

_“Man, Rowena said she was going to tailor it for me,” Sam sighs. He starts wiggling his body around, trying to get the vest off, but finds himself stuck in place. “Great. A little help?”_

_“Yeah, careful. You don’t want to rip that thing. See if you ever get cast in a production again,” Kevin warns._

_Charlie side-eyes him. “Didn’t you go out for ASM because you didn’t get cast in the productions this year?”_

_“Listen,” Kevin covers, eyes widening. “Failure is not an option for me. I had to be involved somehow. And here I am. And I’m very happy here. So pardon me for trying to do my job correctly.”_

_“Kevin,” Castiel placates. “You are doing your job very well.”_

_Kevin’s tiny body seems deflated with relief. “Oh, thank you.”_

_“Now, to continue doing it well, would you please take Sam’s vest downstairs and explain the problem to Rowena?”_

_“Yeah, Cas, I can do that!” Kevin bounces on his toes as Charlie helps Sam wiggle the vest off his wide shoulders and when she hands it to him he shoots off towards the hallway, sawdust spraying in his wake. “I will make you proud!"_

_Dean has stopped hammering aimlessly, smiling at the freshman’s disappearing trail. “Annoying as he is, he is pretty good at his job, isn’t he?”_

_“You, on the other hand, are not,” Castiel says, turning around slowly and glaring at the leading man. “I asked you to sort the wood. Now look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined a perfectly good brick wall, is what you did. It’s full of nails.”_

_“It’s full of love ,” Dean corrects._

_“You’re full of shit ,” Sam laughs._

_Dean grins, feeling the song bouncing around in his head trying to pop back out again. Swinging his hammer around like a rock star with a microphone, Dean jumps over a pile of lumber and ambles up into Castiel, Charlie, and Sam's faces, screamo-singing like there's no tomorrow._ "I'm not that guy! Who am I? I'm Andrew _fucking_ Jackson, and my life sucks in particular! Life SUCKS! And my life sucks in particular..."


End file.
